


Worms From Space

by ALC_Punk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Apocalypse, Established Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, Hooper/Holmes Children, Original Character(s), Super-Powered Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 16:49:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16747807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALC_Punk/pseuds/ALC_Punk
Summary: When scientists make a mistake which has far-reaching consequences, people all over the world begin to die. For Molly and Sherlock and their (super-powered) children, things become dangerous for them, though in the course of events, they might learn how to save the world.





	Worms From Space

**Author's Note:**

> So. This was one of my cranky Saturday fics that started based on the images from a dream, which all were glurged out over the course of the day and then ignored for a month to stew. 
> 
> I gave Molly and Sherlock children with super-powers. I can't tell a lie, it was just for the hell of it. 
> 
> I also borrowed heavily from the idea of Threadfall on Pern, though mine has a resistance to water and doesn't just drown in it (that would have made for an even shorter story). I think I've been as internally consistent as I can, but don't expect miracles or decent science. 
> 
> This fic would be a Syfy Friday night special, really. With Sherlock played by Michael Trucco.

The end of the world had come at the hands of a super-bug which turned worms into predators. It was the sort of schlocky sci-fi movie premise that Molly had adored watching with her children and god-daughter whilst the father of her children and his best friend grumbled and complained in the background. Some idiot had been doing bio-warfare research and made a stupid decision.

He'd not survived long enough to apologize, as his own inventions had devoured him whole.

Like the engineered bio-weapons of mass destruction he'd designed them to be, his creation had swiftly eaten its way free of the facility. The few survivors of that initial massacre, had been able to tell the government how to trap them. Metal. Fire. Cold. All three could affect the creatures, could stop them.

A team had managed to trap the mass of wriggling, flesh-eating worms in a container. They'd welded it shut, sealed it forever, and launched it into space in an unmanned rocket.

Someone else who wasn't particularly bright had made the decision not to burn them to ashes.

It was a mistake that would come back to destroy far too many people. For the worms had evolved without oxygen, without sustenance, their forms adapting to the cold of space. And with luck on their side. The container had collided with space debris, ripping it open and giving them access to space. There, they had evolved again, bred, flourished. The worms became more thread-like, delving into the innards of every satellite they encountered. They ate everything that wasn't hard metal, and colonized the whole of their orbital path. 

By the time anyone put together the failing satellite network with the worms, it was far too late.

They were ready to return to claim the planet for their own. A ring of frozen, blob-like substances hovered there, ready for gravity to take over and pull them into a never-ending fall. 

It had started as silvery shimmers of rain, filaments buried amongst the heavy raindrops. The filaments of thread had abraded and devoured living and organic compounds once in contact with them. Plants, trees, grass, people, animals, all withered and died, turned into food to feed the masses.

Panic had spread across the world, as people tried to avoid death from the skies. Wooden structures were swiftly abandoned, concrete and glass, steel and brick became the buildings of choice. People huddled in groups, and went underground.

Parkland and crops were destroyed equally. Zoos became something you remembered as a small child, for the new generation wouldn't know what they were outside of books and the stories grandfather told.

Waves of the threads continued to come, as the scientists and governments taxed themselves with their eradication. Some measures were successful, others weren't. At least one think-tank predicted that the falls would never end as the organisms were now reproducing at a phenomenal rate in the upper atmosphere. With the evolution, fire was less effective (atmospheric re-entry friction didn't stop them, after all), and cold seemed to make them more vigorous.

In the dawn of a new day, Molly Hooper found herself cursing their luck. London wasn't deserted by any means, but there were now islands of humanity within rather than the spread-out life it had once held. She and Sherlock had gone for supplies, with word that the area they were in was still free of incursion.

That rumor had been incorrect, and they were paying the price.

She'd noticed the odd sheen in the puddles they passed, but hadn't put it together until it was far too late. They were now back to back, watching as the puddles oozed and shifted, teaming with piles of thread-worms, eager to eat a new meal.

They were surrounded by death, with very little possibility of escape.

God. Why had they left Bart's? They knew they had enough for weeks, and Mycroft had promised a shipment of supplies within the week. But Sherlock hadn't been content, had needed to _get out_ before his frustration at their lack of progress consumed him. As part of the London area research team, they had both worked to come up with solutions to the scourge that would work in both the short and long terms. After all, getting rid of the incursion on the ground wouldn't be enough.

Scouring the upper atmosphere without destroying the bio-sphere also needed to be done.

The sludgy puddles oozed into a lake that began closing around them slowly. As though the things were drawing out their deaths The circle was ever-shrinking around them.

Molly closed her eyes and straightened her back. If she were to die, she would not go out shrinking into herself and frightened out of her mind. "Sherlock. What's the plan?"

After all, they had survived far worse.

* * *

_Two weeks before_

* * *

When they had been younger, Molly had marveled at the fact that _she_ had _children with Sherlock Holmes_. They were a wonder and a treasure, and she loved being their mother. The father of said children was also enthused, though sometimes his enthusiasm was more scientific. Molly had to halt more than one experiment, though she'd managed to think of a few of her own--after all, she hadn't gotten together with the irascible consulting detective _just_ for his looks. She'd also appreciated his brain and capacity for clever and strange theories that he dragged her into proving.

More often than not, experiments on their children meant ice cream for them and a visit to their godfather. Abandoned, they'd happily play with Rosie and John whilst Sherlock dragged Molly back for a round of athletic and strenuous sex.

The other reason she participated in experimenting was that it caused in Sherlock the urge to have her in every way possible. Apparently, a scientifically-inclined woman, who assisted or came up with her own ideas, was the biggest turn-on for him. Not that she didn't find it knicker-wetting when he was expounding on a theory that he then proceeded to prove. After all, there had to be compensations for his cutting tongue and general dislike of human contact.

Over the years, he'd mellowed, of course. Causing your three-year-old daughters to cry was not something any man could withstand, least of all Sherlock Holmes. And while his son was more stoic, the disapproval wafting from the five-year-old over the event had led to at least one egg in his favorite shoes.

Molly had informed him that he had only himself to blame.

And so he'd apologized. A not so novel experience, anymore, as Molly had a certain glare that induced it--even if she hadn't been the target of his observations.

Their son had eventually forgiven his father for making his sisters cry, but he had given him a very serious look and informed him that to do so again would have _consequences_.

"He is your son," Sherlock had complained that night, as they got ready for bed. He slept more now, and John teased him that he was in his doddering old age now he had children. But late-night feedings, childish nightmares, and the inevitable arguments and schemes to avoid an early bed-time took their toll on everyone, not least of all, him.

Molly had simply laughed at him. "He gets half of it from you, darling." She pushed up on her toes and kissed his cheek. "Now come to bed, and I'll see if I can cheer you up, hrm?"

Not particularly mollified, he'd allowed her to coax him to bed for a quiet and intense round of love-making.

While he wouldn't say the words often, the way his hands stroked her skin and his mouth skimmed to all of the places which set her on fire, told her more often exactly how much he loved and needed her.

It was a contentment that she counted on during the times when he was gone on cases, or locked in his mind palace. He wasn't an absent father, but he could occasionally look at the four of them as though he didn't what they were or where they'd arrived from. Sometimes, he could be, as John said, a bit not good.

But Molly had not gone into their relationship with blinders on, and so she expected it, and pointed it out when he was being particularly stupid.

When William (who had named himself from the string of names his father had suggested thrusting upon him) turned thirteen, he came to her, terrified. He'd woken that morning in a sweat, with a strange something on his skin. Not the sort of emissions one expected of a new teenager, Molly quickly discerned. It was a coppery, metallic substance.

She had taken a sample into the lab at Bart's, where she was now head of pathology. There were times that she missed the more nitty-gritty details of autopsy, but she still kept her hand in on occasion. And not doing twenty postmortems in a week with half of them being suicides, was a less depressing life. She still consulted, and still took the occasional suspicious death on. After all, when Scotland Yard needed Sherlock's assistance, he still wouldn't work with anyone else in her morgue.

The sample proved to be a metal compound, with elements of copper and steel. And when she returned home that evening, William informed her that he'd been able to make it come out of his skin at school that day.

Discovering that your son was a mutant was something Molly had never expected. Well, she knew that there were always genetic mutations and anomalies, but this newly-discovered mutancy was something out of a ruddy comic book. There wasn't much discussion in the scientific community as yet, as there wasn't a high rate of it. Not enough to really cause comment except for the occasional sensational story in the tabloids.

Most people didn't even believe in the concept.

But as Sherlock was fond of saying, people didn't use their brains ninety-five percent of the time anyway, so their ignorance was their own look-out.

William presented a silver-swirled-copper covered hand at dinner that night, and Sherlock discovered that there was one more experience about raising children that he hadn't been expecting. Still, he took it in stride, and reveled in it. Of course, his children with Molly would be extraordinary.

Of course, what their big brother did, his sisters had to emulate. Though it caused them annoyance and rage and sometimes tears before they were old enough for their mutations to manifest.

Unfortunately, Martha's first foray into her powers set the kitchen on fire and Deirdre's had shattered all of the glass in their flat.

Sherlock had been ecstatic, Molly had been resigned, and William had sulked about his sisters having far more destructive capabilities than his rather silly liquid metal thing.

If he'd known what would happen within the next four years, he probably wouldn't have been quite so upset.

When the first incursions had happened, they'd been terrified but pleased to discover that Baker street was relatively well-made. The roof construction hadn't included very many organic compounds, and the walls were thick and solid.

Early on in their relationship, Sherlock had bought the rest of the building along the block and hired builders to knock through walls and passage-ways. The entire block was a warren of corridors and rooms, though they'd left the end buildings at either side to remain flats and let them out as needed. It gave them space for their separate (Molly had insisted) labs, and play areas and bedrooms for the children. It also gave Sherlock more than enough space to roam.

Molly had also insisted on hiring someone to clean once a week, as she refused to pick up after her lover, and Mrs. Hudson wasn't their housekeeper (and was getting on in years).

After the first year, John and Rosie moved in as well, claiming they were afraid that Molly would end up murdering Sherlock if there wasn't someone else there as the occasional buffer. Molly had retorted that he'd never have known as she'd've used science to bring him back to life as a zombie.

Rosie had spent the next week gleefully calling Sherlock "Zombie-lock!", much to his annoyance and everyone else's amusement.

That first day after the initial incursion, Sherlock had contacted Mycroft, demanding to know everything he did. It was how they'd learned of the initial trouble and the stupid mistake someone in America had made in sending the project into space. Not that Mycroft had put it in such terms, but Molly had heard the disgust in his voice, even without being able to understand all of the words he said to Sherlock.

Phone technology hadn't gotten much better at shielding others from being able to hear a too-loud phone. And while his mind was as clever as ever, Molly had noticed that he'd lost a bit of his hearing acuity. There had been a bomber several years before that he and John had gone after.

Either the explosions they'd encountered during that case, or old age (not that she would suggest such a thing to him), were the cause of the slow deterioration. He hadn't seen a doctor about it, but Molly had read up on it. Unless there was a sudden drop in his hearing ability, it would continue gradually over the next decade or two. He'd be deaf about the time she'd be blind.

It meant that he preferred texting even more, and hated when she'd mumble things against his skin when they were having sex.

Then again, particularly incendiary things murmured into his ears usually resulted in being fucked against the wall, mattress, kitchen counter, or any other available surface. So she wasn't likely to give up doing so anytime soon.

Mycroft sent out a team to check over the building. They'd patched several sections of the roof with metal sheeting and confirmed that there weren't any worms anywhere in the building.

It wasn't long before a state of emergency was declared, with curfews and constant warnings about staying indoors whenever possible. For the first several weeks, Molly continued commuting between Baker street and Bart's. Eventually, though, the chance of being killed by simply walking down the street to the tube station wasn't worth it. And she wasn't willing to spend the money on a cab every day.

Working from home wasn't her preference, but it did give her more time with her teen-aged children. Which might not have been a plus.

The children practiced using their powers every day, determined that they would help defend their home if there was an incursion into it. Deirdre smashed bricks together, then used the resultant dust as a swirling, swooping cloud scoop which lifted various objects and went up peoples' noses. She abandoned the idea of dust shortly.

Martha worked with various materials, setting them on fire and determining which burnt the quickest, which the hottest, which was easiest to start up, and so on. It made both her and Sherlock proud that their children were not stupid and inclined towards rationality and science.

For William, though, discovering that metal was one of the only defenses against the thread made him work extra hard to excrete. If he could cover his skin, he could be completely safe from being consumed. It might save his life. He'd never managed more than the occasional whole arm and his hands. His hands were easy to cover, and he sometimes looked very discouraged that it was his biggest success.

It had disappointed Rosie to discover that her sort-of-cousins had mutant powers while she'd passed into teenager-hood without one. There hadn't been tantrums, but Molly had fielded more than one jealous crying session and had finally pointed out that Rosie was so like her mother it was uncanny, and perhaps her talents lay elsewhere? That it had led to Rosie discovering a proficiency with anything she could aim (she had always thrown rather accurately, as a child) didn't dissuade Molly from believing it had been right thing to do.

With much experimenting, Rosie had settled on learning the long-bow and a variety of guns. Mycroft even loaned them a Baskerville prototype 'laser', which Rosie quite enjoyed using to burn holes in things.

Of course, a gun license for an eighteen-year-old wasn't particularly common, but Mycroft swung it along with the permits required for Rosie's little arsenal. She kept it locked in one of the rooms in the building she and John shared. They hired another builder and had them build a target range for her in the basement flat area, with lots of sound-proofing and bullet-stops and padding against all of the walls to cut down on ricochets and lost bullets.

When Rosie turned twenty-one, her unwanted birthday present was an incursion into Baker street.

* * *

At seventeen, William Holmes (he'd decided that out of the mouthful of Robert Hamish William Hooper Holmes, he would choose a simpler moniker. His mother had told him that the look on his father's face when he'd announced this at age four had been priceless, but pleased), had long given up hope that he'd be able to manifest enough of the liquid metal to make a difference. He'd tried for the last several months to do so, desperate to be proved capable to be part of the defense of his home and planet.

But it hadn't been enough. Every means he tried, every emotion he provoked within himself did nothing to assist in spurring the production of the fluid. Oh, he could sweat up a storm, he could wake with morning wood often enough. But he couldn't create enough metal to cover his whole body for protection.

It was almost enough to make a near-grown-man cry.

The rain had been falling intermittently for hours--it was London, it always seemed to be raining or fog. Sometimes, there was sunlight, but one could never count on that. Being holed up in Baker street was more pleasant than he'd thought it would be. Yes, he missed seeing his mates and being able to go out at all hours. But at least he'd been headed for uni shortly, and had been out of secondary. Unlike his sisters, who had discovered that their mother was perfectly capable of taking over the daily task of hammering math and science into their brains. She also worked on their essay writing skills, pointing out that even mathematicians needed to be able to write if they were to publish anything for the world to see their brilliance.

Still, he disliked being indoors, and had taken to sitting out on the small balcony of the room he'd taken over when he'd finally gotten tired of being close enough to his sisters to hear them arguing. With them at the other end of Baker street, he'd discovered a peace he hadn't thought possible.

He didn't mind the falling rain. There was something oddly freeing about nature soaking him in the midst of the concrete and steel of London. The city had been luckier than some, he knew. So much of its architecture was old and solid, whereas some of the newer metropolitan areas had moved to construction with plastics.

When he was soaked through, his dark brown hair hanging in hanks to his shoulders (his decision on length had made his father occasionally look jealous, as the weight kept him curl-free), he got up to go back in.

That was when he heard it. A change in the sound of the rain. An odd, whispering, slippery thud that wasn't the fall of water.

He barely had time to get under cover before the first clump of thread landed on his balcony and began writhing its way towards him.

* * *

"Mum!" Martha burst through the door of Molly's lab, terror in her delicate features. Whilst Deirdre had Sherlock's cheekbones, Martha had her own, and sometimes it was like looking into a mirror into the past when she watched her daughter. Though Martha looked to have also inherited Sherlock's height, while Deirdre had hers. Her hair was short, though, as she liked the springiness at that length. "Rosie just called. Thread is falling, and its eaten its way through the wood round their windows."

Eyes widening, Molly cast a glance round her lab, noting all of the places where there was wood. If the stuff had evolved again... Thus far, while it could eat roofs and anything free-standing, getting to the window-frames hadn't been something they'd seen (Mycroft had seemed certain that they wouldn't need flanging over their windows). With that changed, there was the real possibility that Baker street would no longer be safe for them. "She was sure it was the wood?"

"Yes. Said it seemed to adhere outside, then was eating and reproducing in front of their eyes. Like a wall of worms," making a face, Martha leaned against the table Molly was working at. "Will we be safe?"

"I don't know. Get to your room, and get your things packed. And tell your sister, too." It had been one of the plans they'd discussed over the last months. If there was an incursion and there was no way to stop it, Baker street would need to be abandoned. They couldn't barricade themselves into one section of it well enough--especially as none of them enjoyed close quarters living. It was why they'd expanded through all of the buildings, after all.

"She and Dad know, I passed them on the way."

"What about Will?"

"Deirdre's giving him a shout now."

That was almost all of her children accounted for, but Molly didn't relax. "Good. Get to your room. I'll pack the kitchen."

Part of the plan had been to store most of their things below, near the escape tunnel that Mycroft's men had installed. If they had to leave during an incursion, the chances were that they wouldn't be able to go via the streets. Too exposed there. So now they had a set of tunnels that reached the nearby Underground station. From there, they could take the train to Bart's, which also had its own network of tunnels leading up to the hospital.

Theoretically, she could have used the route to get to work every day, but she'd preferred staying at home. Using the tunnels had felt far too much like shutting herself away from the world.

They wouldn't be able to take everything, but it had been nearly time for another supplies delivery, and Bart's was well-stocked. Counting off the tasks in her head, Molly finished shutting down her laptop--it was old, but reliable. She could have upgraded to something fancier, but she preferred the familiar. She packed it away in its case, then swiftly grabbed the first-aid kit and a few other bits and bobs.

With one more glance at her lab, she left. It might be the last time she would see it, but a part of her had faith that they would return.

Even if the building was destroyed, they would return to Baker street. After all, what was Baker street without Sherlock Holmes and John Watson? A smile tugged at her mouth as she thought of the faces Sherlock would make if he was exposed to more ridiculous headlines about himself, his children, or his friend. He'd never been fond of the press, and their treatment of his relationship with her had soured him entirely on the fifth estate.

That they had painted her as some sort of scarlet woman for living with the father of her children without marriage had actually made her laugh. This was the twenty-first century, after all! Sherlock had not been pleased, though.

As far as he was concerned, her reputation was suffering simply because they hadn't signed a stupid piece of paper.

It wasn't something she'd ever needed from him. She knew he loved her, and loved their children. He knew she loved him. Marriage was something he'd always hated, loathed. The very idea of it was an abomination, he'd once told her--that had been long before the sex, of course. Molly had never had the illusion that she would fall in love with Sherlock Holmes and get married in a princess wedding and live happily-ever-after.

But what she did have was far more real and far more them.

Simply because they had children together, she had shouted at him more than once, was no reason for signing a piece of paper.

That the argument was silly and ridiculous wasn't lost on her, either.

Marriage wouldn't be an inconvenience, and might actually make things easier when it came to taxes and children. Eventually, they'd worn each other down.

Signing a piece of paper didn't mean he had to get her the bloody ring, though.

Retaliation in the form of a ring for him had been disconcertingly well-received (the sex had been rather frantic, after that little presentation, and Molly had actually called off work the next day just to recover).

John had snickered for _weeks_ after that, talking loftily about the sentimentality of wedding rings that Sherlock had fallen for.

Her husband in a snit was still an amusing sight to behold.

The kitchen was a large, open room with enough storage for their needs. The refrigerator was strictly for food, Molly had banned body parts the day she'd moved into 221B, much to Sherlock's consternation. She'd gifted him with a smaller model, and stuck it in John's old room which had been empty for long enough. While she'd allowed the occasional experiment to happen in the kitchen, she'd laid down several laws which Sherlock had surprisingly followed.

It might possibly have been her threat to not allow sex in the kitchen if he left caustic chemicals lying about which turned that tide.

Passing the counter, she frowned as she looked towards the window. The rain was wet, with clumps of thread intermittently falling. Not quite raining cats and dogs, then. Grabbing up their fabric shopping bags, she began filling them with essentials.

The rest of the food that they had stored there, the few utensils that they would need, the kettle. One could never have too many kettles. She didn't bother with the pots and pans, though she gave their pot rack a wistful look before moving on. Cooking at Bart's was communal, these days, and they had all the cookery they could use. She didn't bother with the cold things for the most part, though she did grab the last handful of strawberries, eating them as she checked there wasn't anything they could use in the freezer.

Her phone rang, and she fumbled it out, "Rosie?"

"Get away from any windows, Aunt Molly!" The frantic voice broke Molly out of her quiet thoughts, and she whirled to look at the window, confused. 

It had been a requirement when they'd planned the kitchen expansion--Molly enjoyed having light as she cooked, and Sherlock hadn't protested. Of course she'd been surprised to discover that when he was eating he did actually enjoy the making of food. If sometimes the food ended up burnt as they did other, distracting, things, she didn't object. The window was also amazing when it was night. The light of the moon and streets streaming in and making patterns on the wall as Sherlock went down on her at the counter was one of her favorite memories.

"What's--" and then she realized what Rosie meant. Around the edges of the window, where the wood and plastic framed the glass, was a writhing, shifting mass that was oozing through into the room. "Oh, god."

Martha had told her, but she hadn't really thought about it. Not until now, with the reality in front of her. Thread ran down the wall from the window and crawled across the counter, heading for her.

"Rosie, meet at the evac point." She snapped as she hoisted up the bags and backed towards the doorway. Planning her own route would be difficult if she had to avoid windows. Why did a normal flat have so any bloody windows? They hadn't gotten rid of any of them when they'd remodeled.

"Willdo. Good luck." Over the sound of Rosie breathing, came the sound of the taser that Rosie had borrowed from her sort-of-uncle Mycroft.

"You, too." Molly thumbed off the call and shoved the phone back into her pocket.

The rolling, pulsing mass oozed closer, and she thought a bit hysterically of movies she'd watched as a teenager. Strands of thread reached for her, and she turned and ran.

* * *

When Celeste Martha Elaine Hooper Holmes had been named, Martha Hudson had felt a sense of pride and pleasure over being part of the little mite's name. She'd been an adorable little baby, and Martha had felt a sense of kinship the first time Molly handed her over. That she was also the baby's godmother had been no surprise, though being Deirdre's as well, had been a pleasure.

If someone had told her, during the bad old days of Florida and the cartels that she would one day have more godchildren than she could shake a stick at, Martha would have laughed at the person. Godchildren were something for pensioners and grandmothers to argue over.

But at her age now, she found that she enjoyed it. Rosie was a dear, and little William was just like his father except that he was all smiles and giggles. And the twins were a handful from the moment they opened their little eyes. It was everything Martha found that she wanted, and she reveled in teaching the children how to handle their parents and how to survive if you only had the clothes on your back to live (Molly knew, of course, though she'd told Martha that pole-dancing would not be part of her childrens' repertoire until they were at least fifteen).

And when Celeste Martha Elaine turned six, she politely asked Martha if she would mind sharing her name. "Celeste is too silly for me, and I don't think I'm an Elaine. But Martha," and here the little girl had smiled a crooked smile so like her father's it made Martha's chest ache. "Martha is amazing and wonderful and all of the things I want to be."

Well. One couldn't object to words like that, and so Martha became two separate people, and Martha Hudson felt that she could retire from life gracefully with a well-trained legacy to leave behind her.

All of which was a moot point as she grabbed up the already-packed emergency bag and headed down to the escape passage that Sherlock had insisted they drill with once a week as soon as it was finished. Really, one had to wonder about that boy, sometimes. He was prescient in a way that occasionally terrified her.

Not as much as the end of the world, of course.

"Martha!" Dashing down the hall, hair flying behind her, was Deirdre. Another poor child with far too many names. Martha had always thought that Molly was over-compensating and Sherlock was simply being obnoxious. Though Deirdre was the only one of her siblings to prefer her first name. Deirdre Mary Lorelai Hooper Holmes took after her father in looks. She let her hair grow longer than her twin's, and the dark curls were the envy of everyone in her school group.

"I know, dear, evac point."

Swooping down, Deirdre scooped up Martha's bag and added it to the pack she already had over one shoulder. "Let me take that."

"I'm not that old--"

"Don't argue."

Gracefully accepting it, Martha led the way down the stairs into the basement flat. With its damp problem, they'd never used it for much--with the whole block to play and design in, Sherlock and Molly hadn't needed it anyway. Though they'd cleared out all of the mold and scoured the walls back to the underlying brick.

It was here that they'd built the escape tunnel in. One of the first rooms off the stairs--they'd decided not to use the parlor on the other side, as that room wasn't in an ideal location for the tunnels underneath. Into the back corner, the tunnel had been carefully incised. No one had wanted to interrupt the integrity of the structures above, after all. The archway was lined in metal sheeting, and the tunnel opening began with a metal ladder.

The floor below sloped, and Martha was careful as she stepped off of the ladder. "All right, dear, I'm through."

She moved back so that Deirdre could begin sending the baggage down, using a clever little rope and pulley system. In a pinch, they could haul them down as they traversed the ladder. But this would be less taxing.

"Deirdre?" That was Molly's voice. Good, at least one of them had made it this far.

"I'm here with Martha Hudson, Mum."

"Excellent. Love, get this down in the tunnel and then you follow."

There was a bit of noise as bags changed hands, and then Martha saw more of the bags lowering down. Kitchen supplies, then. It looked like Molly hadn't made it to her own bedroom. Martha frowned at that, but kept silent.

"Deirdre, the windows in the other room, do you think you can block them with metal and other debris?"

"Is there anything to use?"

Something clattered above. "I grabbed this on the way down. Will it be enough?"

"Maybe, let me try--"

Below, Martha listened and tried to identify the sounds above. Metal bending, rock and something else impacting. A muffled curse from Deirdre that her mother would normally have objected to. A strange muffled slurp.

Then Deirdre came back, "God, Mum. It was almost through!"

"It's why I asked. Now get down the ladder."

A moment later, Deirdre, pale and frightened, was standing next to Martha.

"What is it, love?"

"The incursion--it's eating the window frame. If I hadn't, if Mum hadn't--" drawing in a deep breath, Deirdre expelled it, centering and calming herself. "I had enough to block it. The others should be safe."

For now. Martha didn't have to hear the addition to know it was implied. If the thread-incursion could eat through the plastic and wood of the window-frames, then Baker street was entirely compromised. She felt a lump in her throat as she thought of all of the natural textiles in her flat that would be destroyed. Not that they mattered, not really. What mattered was the flesh and blood of the people she held dear.

More footsteps above heralded the arrival of John, Rosie, Sherlock, and Martha.

"Where's Will?" Molly demanded as they began descending the ladder and sending down their baggage. "Where's my son?"

"He's on his way--" called down Rosie. "He called, said it would be a bit since he's having to dodge through."

Martha closed her eyes and drew in a breath of her own.

* * *

"Did you see that?" Crowing, almost dancing, Martha spun to look at her father. Behind her, the flames she conjured burnt away into nothing, taking the last of the slowly spreading sludge of thread with them.

"Yes. Now continue on towards the evacuation point."

"But, Dad--" she gestured, letting a tiny little flame flicker over her fingers. "If I can burn it all out, we can stay!"

He shook his head and touched her shoulder. There was pride for her in his gaze as she looked up at him. "I know you want it to be the solution, but this is too exposed a location now."

It was getting more difficult for Mycroft to get them supplies where they were. And one less place for his people to watch would assist in freeing them up for other duties. Too, the research team at Bart's would probably be grateful for Molly's expertise. He knew she had tried to assist as they worked on a way to effectively eradicate the thread menace without resorting to burning the whole planet.

While he felt a pang to be leaving it behind, Baker street was just a building. He had learnt long ago, that where Molly and his children were was home.

Once, that would have caused him to sneer. Such a dull, predictable, domestic _sentiment_ was above the intelligence and cold logic of Sherlock Holmes. But the years had passed, and with every moment that Molly Hooper did not leave him for someone who could feel those things, who could give her the home she deserved, he realized that perhaps he could feel those things.

Not as dully as others, of course. He didn't ask her to marry him, he didn't wander about declaring his love for her constantly.

But the onset of William, and the uncertainty in her eyes when she told him of the pregnancy (which he had begun to deduce already), had changed him further. Sherlock Holmes was not a man prone to wanting children. He was not a nice person, he was not cut out to be a nice person. And yet he was a father.

Once John had talked him down from his terror, pointing out all of the ways he was capable--after all, he hadn't killed his goddaughter, had he? Sherlock had returned to Baker street.

Molly had forgiven him after several lengthy bouts of oral sex, a week's worth of dish duty, and promising that he wouldn't run away again. It probably also helped when he bought her the things she was suddenly craving at odd hours. Not that he minded that, it was a fascinating scientific experiment to work out how they would effect the child growing inside of her.

All of that had simply amused her, luckily. John had warned him that pregnant women weren't exactly happy about being considered experiments. But she knew him as so few did, and so she didn't mind.

She even suggested a few variables and ideas all on her own.

Then their son was born, a tiny scrap of ugly humanity, with his misshapen head and tiny little hands and scrunched up face. But Molly found him adorable, and as the days passed, Sherlock had eventually conceded that their son was possibly more intriguing than at first glance.

Of course, it was after one of the interminable late night feedings that Sherlock offered marriage the first time. Molly had given him a strange look and asked him if he was just offering since that was what one did when one shared genetic material in a child. He'd allowed as how John had been hinting (with a sledgehammer, as John Watson didn't understand subtlety at the best of times), that they should marry so their child wouldn't be considered a bastard.

That had made Molly frown a little, but she'd told him that it was a silly reason to get married. Besides, wasn't he rather against the entire institution?

He had left it there, conceding she was correct. He abhorred the entire idea of marriage, as he'd once stated to a large crowd of people at John's wedding. After all, it was so similar to murder, and he didn't particularly like to think of Molly ending up dead. Though statistics leaned towards himself dying first. Especially if murder were involved.

It was at Robbie's (Will had yet to make his own very serious choice about which name he would be known by, and Molly had liked the nickname) second birthday party, while John was letting Rosie play with his godson, that Molly had sidled up to him and asked how he felt about twins.

This time, he didn't run away.

For one thing, John was living in one of the converted Baker street flats, so it wasn't as though he could go very far. Neither Lestrade or Mycroft would have been sympathetic.

He still managed to hide for a time as he processed the idea that he was destined to be a father again. That sex was for procreation was something he had been aware of. It was why he had sneered about it for so long, why he'd not been particularly interested (once he'd gotten over the discovery in uni--drugs had been so much easier to handle, after all, and the highs lasted for longer). But he'd sort of blocked that reason for sex from his mind. After all, he and Molly enjoyed a quite active sex life that wasn't particularly dull and routine. They hadn't been trying for another child, but they hadn't not been, either.

Molly had gone off birth control once she'd been pregnant with William, and had told him she'd enjoyed not having to regiment her days so constantly. After all, even with the birth control, they'd still managed to conceive their son. In addition, she'd begun to assume that her age would preclude another pregnancy. Still, they'd been using condoms (when they remembered), and it wasn't as though either of them were outside the normal spectrum of fertility.

But twins. That wasn't something that ran in either family, and he was terrified and gratified at once, wondering if it was the constant sex which allowed for it to happen.

When he finally surfaced, it was to find Martha Hudson cooing over images from the ultra-sound that he'd missed.

That set him back a bit, but the sight of two tiny little creatures (Molly told him that her children were _not_ creatures, and he'd amended the word) made his heart stop and his breath seize up. Then he'd looked over at Molly, and found that autonomic processes continued whether the world froze around him or not.

Having twin daughters was an experience he'd delighted in, though he was disturbed to find that they had him wrapped neatly around their tiny little fingers almost from the first.

For his son, he would murder. For his daughters, he would live. And for all three, he would marry their mother.

* * *

While his balcony covered itself in squirming, wormy masses of crap, William hastily threw clothing and toiletries into a bag. They'd discussed evacuations and even run a few drills over the last weeks. He was quite prepared, or so he hoped.

Once the bag was full, he hoisted it to his shoulder and turned to go.

He stopped, though, staring at the door to his balcony. Concentrating, he manifested a thin layer of metal around his hand and then waved it at the door. It poured outwards, splattering against the door and its frame. Liquid metal polymers, his father had told him after they'd done extensive testing and chemical analysis. After all, that was how they learnt to discover things growing up (though his mother had more than once drawn the line at using blow-torches on body parts in the kitchen).

If only he could control it better, or produce more of the stuff! He could wrap himself up in it and walk out through the thread, untouchable. Though what that would accomplish, he wasn't sure.

Perhaps if they had a flame-thrower (he wouldn't put it past Rosie to be storing one in her shooting gallery), he could take the fight to the worms. Being able to burn things would be so much better than being able to wrap his fist in liquid metal. Not that he was as jealous of Martha and her ability as he'd once been. She had to be so careful of her emotions these days. Deirdre had less of a problem, but Martha had managed to set her notes on fire during a particularly loud argument with her then-boyfriend.

Being a teenager, with surging hormones and confusing emotions was enough of a difficulty without also being able to set things on fire with a thought.

Or so he assumed. His power hadn't been difficult, really. Just not as impressive.

Pain suddenly startled him, and he yelped, then stared down in horror at the floor and his feet. While he'd been standing there, the thread had eaten its way through part of the door, and strands writhed before him, two latched onto his trainer, burrowing.

The pain was worse, then, and he felt sickened as he could feel the sensation of something pushing in and through the skin of his toes.

Adrenaline broke through him, slowing down time. He'd heard about the phenomenon before, both his father and uncle John discussing it. His mother had said it was like every thought went faster than you could see it, and colors heightened. If he couldn't break free, if he couldn't find a way to neutralize it, the thread would burrow into his body, devouring him from the toes up.

Terror came next, sweat breaking out all over him, and his gut roiled. He wanted to double over and throw-up, to let the pain take over.

Resolve clutched at him. _No._. NO. He could manifest metal around his hands and fingers, he could manage it elsewhere, he could protect himself, he could--

The taste of salt and iron warned him he'd bitten something in his mouth, but he used it to focus, pushing the feeling of liquid metal down his legs to his feet. Visualizing the muscles of his feet, the location of his toes, the shape of his toe-nails (not that he had anymore, possibly, if the pain in his foot was any indication).

And when he had the image firmly in his mind, he gathered up all of the terror and pain and uncertainty and _pushed_.

For an agonizing, searing moment, there was nothing.

Then it came. Like a rush through his veins, like a wave, the liquid metal poured out of his pores, slicking down his skin and wrapping around his ankles and feet. Crudely, he thrust it into the spaces where the thread was burrowing into his flesh and tore them away, shoving them out.

Expelling foreign matter was less difficult than he'd thought, and he opened his eyes and looked down, finding that he was sheathed in silvery-copper swirls from his hips down. The writhing mass of the thread circled him now.

With a growl, he kicked out at a particularly large blob. "Want some of this? Huh?"

His foot connected with it, the metal coating his trainers digging into the mass and then sending it flying.

Well, some of it did. Sludge wasn't easily kicked, sadly.

There was, however, a far more interesting reaction happening. Where the metal touched the surface of the thread, it _sizzled_ , almost as though it were burning it.

Whatever it was doing, he let it happen, pushing lines of the metal out through his hands, he slashed downwards, spattering the seething mass before him. More hissing and definitely burning. He could see the fog raised from the chemical reactions.

As much as he wanted to stop and investigate, as much as this was a bloody break-through, Will clamped down on the urge and began to move. He had to escape, after all. His family would be worried, and he couldn't let them worry. Even if he could now use his power for something offensive, he didn't have the time to test it more. It was more important to survive and come back to it.

With one last glance at the withering piles he'd hit with the metal, and trying to kick as much of it as he could on his way, he headed for the hallway and the evacuation route.

There was no telling if they'd be able to replicate this. Or if it would help in the long run, but he plotted the tests they'd need to do as he went, using that to ignore the pain in his foot. After all, if he stopped to think about it, he'd remember that he'd almost died and that there was something wrong with his balance due to at least two missing toes.

He also called Rosie to let someone know he would be delayed. After all, his was almost the furthest bedroom, and he'd be sure to encounter more of the stuff.

If he was unlucky, it would drip down on him from the ceilings.

* * *

For Molly, having any of her children late to the evacuation point was enough to induce worry. But she kept it together, didn't let it rule her. She'd encountered more of the incursion on her way down, avoiding it as best she could and running when she had to. It was annoying to discover that she was a little more out of shape than she'd thought, and she'd made a note to make sure she set some time aside each day for just walking around and up sets of stairs.

Nothing made an apocalypse worse than being the one lagging behind as you all ran for shelter.

Checking them off on her internal list was another tactic to keep her grounded. She also mentioned to Sherlock Deirdre's covering the window. 

That had reminded her, and she'd shot off a text to Mycroft about the problem with window frames. Bart's could become compromised, though it had far more materials for the thread to chew through before it could get to the core where people were staying.

But the waiting wasn't too long, though it felt longer, as she saw Will climbing down the ladder, his duffle bag still over his shoulder. His lower half was coated in silver-copper swirls, and while she was glad to see that his power had manifested to strongly, she didn't really want to think about what that meant about his journey to join them.

As soon as he was off the ladder, she grabbed him in a tight hug. "Glad you made it."

"Group hug!" Martha crowed, throwing herself at them. Deirdre joined in, with Rosie a second later. John heaved a sigh and Sherlock made a grumbling noise as Martha Hudson looped her arm through his and dragged him into the pile.

Molly fought back a sudden need to cry, and kissed Will's cheek. He was taller than her now, annoyingly.

"So, when we get to Bart's, we have to do some tests," said Will as Martha Hudson started off, with John lending her an arm. The others quickly divvied up the bags and followed, with Will next to his mother and Sherlock bringing up the rear.

"We do?"

He nodded enthusiastically, gesturing at his lower half, still in its covering. "There's some sort of chemical reaction that's detrimental to the thread-stuff when it touches the liquid metal. Sort of burns it. Definitely stops it."

"That's... that's good to know." She shot Sherlock a look over her shoulder and could see him filing the information away, and pulling up the data on the composition of the polymer which their son created.

"I though so. Could be the break-through uncle Mycroft's team needs?"

She nudged him with her shoulder, suddenly so proud of him for thinking outside of himself. "Could be."

Behind her, she could hear the sound of Sherlock tapping away at his phone, and knew he was already informing Mycroft. She looked at Will again, then frowned.

"Is that blood?" Molly asked, looking down at his feet in concern.

Will made a face, "Just a toe or two, I think. That's why I'm maintaining the metal. Not sure about how deep it goes."

It would have to be looked at once they reached Bart's, but Molly didn't say it aloud. She knew her son was very aware of that, and if it was only a few toes that he lost, she knew all of them could be content with that. He was alive, after all.

"Did you save the toes so Dad can experiment on them?" asked Deirdre as she reached over to poke him in the side.

A huff escaped him, "No, DeeDee, I didn't, I was thinking more about running for my bloody life."

The sound of her hated nickname made her fire back something in retaliation, but Molly tuned them out as she dropped back to walk with Sherlock, who made an occasional glance behind them. "Something wrong?"

"Other than our bickering children, and a thread-like sludge threatening the end of the world?"

Reaching out, Molly took his hand, lacing their fingers together. "Mycroft is fine, you know. He is aware of the window problem, and is probably already taking steps at Bart's." After all, as much as he pretended, she knew he cared about his brother. Worried about his safety, even as they ran for their lives.

His fingers tightened around hers for a moment and he sighed. "What did I do to deserve you?"

"Everything, Sherlock. Everything."

* * *

_Present Day_

* * *

It hadn't been a surprise that Molly assumed he had a plan. After all, he'd had thirteen scenarios prepped and ready for his confrontation with Moriarty. She knew he planned, knew he was sometimes completely over-zealous about it. Once, back when the twins were small, he'd plotted out every step of a trip to Tesco, hoping it would stop the entire thing from descending into chaos. That hadn't worked out so well, but he'd also heard from John that a plan never survived the first encounter with the enemy, anyway.

"You haven't developed the mutant power of flight while I've not been watching, have you?" He asked her over his shoulder. It would be like his wife to conjure some ridiculous mutant power, even long after the time when it should have manifested.

Too, they'd both tested and reviewed their DNA back when Will was discovering his own power. Neither of them had that slight anomaly which seemed to allow for it, though Molly had argued that his brain certainly counted.

"Unfortunately, no." She pressed closer to his back.

Before he could respond, he tilted his head to the side, trying to focus on the sound he thought he'd--yes. Yes, he had heard it.

The steady thwock-thwock of a helicopter. And it was getting closer.

"Perhaps I don't need a plan, perhaps I simply need to remember to have faith in my brother and his spying tendencies," he muttered as the flying machine hovered into view. The wind from the rotor blades buffered them both, and he swore as he realized it was churning the thread, as well.

A moment later, the door of the helicopter opened, and Will leaned out. A stream of silvery-copper rained down over them, spattering against the ground. It burnt and withered the thread where it encountered it. From the other side of the machine came the spattering of fire which told him at least one of his daughters was up there, as well. They would be having a discussion about the safety of dangling precariously from flying machines later.

Right now, he would simply be grateful that Molly produced amazing, strange, and wonderful children.

The assault pushed back the lake surrounding them, giving them the space and room to maneuver when the ladder was finally dropped down for them. Sherlock, gestured Molly up first, then found himself enjoying the sight of his wife's shapely behind as she clambered up, swaying back and forth.

He stepped onto the lowest rung and began following her. Someone above gave a signal, and he began to raise as much as he was climbing, as the helicopter tilted and flew upwards, pulling them out of the alley.

* * *

When they returned to Bart's, Molly was one of the first out and through the door on the roof, Sherlock almost directly behind her. While a part of her wanted to stop and scold Will--he wasn't supposed to be on his feet, while he healed from losing three toes, though it could have been worse--she had too much going through her head to stop.

She had to get down to their lab, and write this theory down and begin plotting how to test it before it fled her brain. It was something that had been sitting somewhere in the back of her mind and it wasn't until she'd watched Will and Martha together that it had finally coalesced into something that might make it possible for them to isolate exactly what was causing the thread to whither and die when in contact with Will's liquid metal--something they hadn't been able to replicate in laboratory conditions unless he was using it himself. Samples did nothing.

They had tried multiple attempts, even using some of the stored bodies to keep their thread samples alive (and while a part of her decried that, she knew it was needed). While it was possible to starve them out, of course, that wasn't the most viable of options.

Particularly since Molly had postulated more than one theory that it wasn't a death-state, but some sort of stasis which would retreat once the thread was introduced to something biological to devour again. That had been proved in one very gruesome session that had turned even her stomach--and she'd been doing postmortems for decades, and seen quite a lot in her time.

"Molly?"

"Thought--theory--" she didn't continue as she ran down the steps.

Sherlock followed her, two steps at a time. Behind them, she could hear someone shouting after them about reckless behavior and endangerment, but she simply didn't care. Later, Mycroft could enact a lecture for hours on end, and she'd attempt to listen.

Right now, he was a distraction, a hindrance.

She burst into the lab, causing at least one of the people to jump in surprise, and grabbed up pen and paper from the nearest desk.

"Damn." Sherlock muttered, as he caught up and leant against the desk. "Not dashing for a supply closet, then."

For a brief moment, Molly let his words catch her brain. She picked through the inferences swiftly: closet, sex, the adrenaline rush of near-death experiences, the way Sherlock's pupils were blown wide. The thrill of the idea rolled through her, and she licked her lips, then shook her head. "Sorry, need to get this down before it's gone."

Leaning in, he brushed his lips over her cheek, and then he was gone.

A sigh escaped her and then she returned to the theory she was scrawling out, hoping that she was right, hoping they had the right conditions to perfect and then test it.

Because if they did, she thought there might be a possibility to destroy the thread at its source and save everyone.

* * *

The team had worked through the night and then part of the next day to work through all of the variations of the problem and determine exactly how to synthesize the right combination to produce a match to the liquid metal polymer that Will excreted. He'd been dragged in several times just to give them some more samples. Molly had also taken several skin and blood samples as well, as she wanted to see if her theory was correct.

Once they'd managed a stable combination (and that, with Sherlock's assistance, as he was the chemist, not her), Molly split their sample in two and added a drop of her son's blood to one them, then nodded.

"Let's try this."

Two of the military scientists Mycroft had drafted brought out one of their still-active samples. It was encased in a reinforced glass box, with a carefully-designed opening in the top side which would allow them to drop samples of mixtures in.

"Right. Test one, complete mixture." Molly let one of the others pull open the little window while she readied a pipette. Then she held it over it and released the full dose into the box below.

They all watched as the thread writhed and twitched, but otherwise didn't seem to be effected.

Drawing in another breath, Molly filled a pipette from the second mixture. "Test one, no discernible effect. Test two: complete mixture plus postulated biological component."

Again, one of the others opened the window. Molly found herself holding her breath as she released the second test mixture into the box.

There was silence in the room, as though they were all holding their breath. If this worked, if this was the component that was required to save them all--it was a ridiculously simple compound to reproduce, the difficulty would then be in confirming if it was just one type of biological component that was required or not. After all, she wasn't particularly keen on draining her son of his blood just to save the world.

Arguments could be made, of course, but she was his mother. They would not win against her, and she shuddered to think what Sherlock would do to anyone who suggested that his son be sacrificed for some specious 'greater good' or 'needs of the many'.

Inside of the box, the thread began to twist and writhe, withering as the compound destroyed it.

Molly blew out a breath and closed her eyes. "Next test in two hours. We need a variety of options to choose from to determine the validity of the objective."

* * *

In the end, they discovered that any blood worked just as well as Will's. Cow's blood seemed to work particularly well, and with the assistance of most of the world powers, Mycroft managed to get enough manufactured to both blanket the world and send into the upper atmosphere (there was a slight worry that it wouldn't work in that environment, but they were hopeful). The predictions were that it would be more than a week before all the pockets of the infestation were destroyed.

The next step was to use tracking equipment to find any remaining patches. Crop dusters and any planes which could be fitted, were sent out to spray fields and forests, mountains and lakes. The oceans were harder, though given the success of oil spills over the years, Mycroft predicted it could be managed. It was always a pity that the worm-thread didn't expire in water. 

Reports from satellite imaging showed that the upper atmosphere was slowly being purged. They sent up multiple pay-loads for weeks, launching replacement satellites where they could, until eventually, it looked as though it were gone.

No one believed it yet, and most countries continued with curfews and patrols, careful to keep their remaining populations from dying out of stupidity and a lack of caution.

In London, Sherlock insisted on being part of the group which cleared Baker street. Once that was done, he cajoled his family back, telling his children that, yes, they were the silent heroes of the hour, but even heroes needed to sleep.

They returned to their little warren of flats, once they'd managed to have builders come in and fix the sidings around the windows. The floors also needed cleaning and re-finishing, and Sherlock had found more than one pile of dead thread sludge that had to be suctioned out from the sub-flooring. All in all, it was nearly three months after they'd initially cleared the whole of London that they were finally able to move back in.

Life didn't change much--even at the height of the terror, most people had still gone about their daily routines. Just with a little more care and circumspection. True, schools had been closed, and many businesses had seen panic buying. Banks had whole accounts cleared as people went into hiding.

And there had been deaths. So many had died in the early days that the population had dropped. Not enough to have much of an impact in London, but there were whole areas of rural England that were simply gone. The same was true the world over, and sometimes, Molly wondered if there would be a change in the way people dealt with each other. It had taken a massive effort from many nations to get enough rockets in the air. She didn't think it would last, though. Peace never did.

Still, life, for the most part, returned to normal. Her children did their best to try each others' patience, her husband did his best to try hers. And when she was truly annoyed or at least horny, she dragged him down into the escape tunnel--not bricked up as she'd thought, but still somewhat disused.

There was something about having sex against a tunnel wall that got the blood truly pumping and cleared the mind of all ones' woes. Sherlock certainly seemed to agree.

-f-

**_Epilogue_ **

No one would have believed, as the year wound down to a Christmas celebrated more for the lack of thread in a year than the need to consume, that human affairs were being watched from the timeless worlds of space. No one could have dreamed that we were being scrutinized, as someone with a microscope watched the cultures from a mold experiment. And yet, across the gulf of space, minds immeasurably superior to ours (except possibly Sherlock's) made decisions that would prove inimical to human life. The human race had, after all, suffered a set-back, a weakening. They were ripe for invasion. And slowly, and surely, they drew their plans against us.

 

(note: this epilogue is tongue in cheek, I have no intention of writing War of the Worlds as this has already been done)


End file.
